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RILEY SONGS OF SUMMER 



RILEY 
SONGS OF SUMMER 



JAMES 
WHITCOMB RILEY 



ILLUSTRATED BY 

WILL VAWTER 



102? 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright 1883, 1887, 1888, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1894, 1896, 1897, 
1898, 1899, 1900, 1901, 1903, 1905, 1907, 1908 

James Whitcomb Riley 



All Rights Reserved 

Copyright 1922 
The Bobbs-Merrill Company 



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Printed in the United States of America 




PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 

BOOK MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN, N. Y. 



MAR ^4 1922 
CLA661146 



'Kp/ 




To 

Lee 0. Harris 

Teacher, Friend and Comrade 



THE SUMMER-TIME 

O, the summer-time to-day 

Makes my tvords 
Jes' flip up and fly away 
Like the birds ! 

— 'Taint no use to try to sing, 
With yer language on the wing, 
Jes 9 too glad fer anything 
But to stray 

Where it may 
Thue the sunny summer weather of the day! 

Lordy! what a summer -time 

Fer to sing! 
But my words flops out o' rhyme, 
And they wing 

Furder yit beyent the view 
Than the swallers ever flew, 
Er a mortal wanted to — 
'Less his eye 
Struck the sky 
Ez he kind o' sort o' thought he'd like to fly! 

Ef I COULD sing — sweet and low — 

And my tongue 
Could twitter, don't you know, 
Ez I sung 

Of the summer-time, 'y Jings! 
All the words and birds and things 
That kin warble, and hes wings, 
Would jes' swear 
And declare 
That they never heerd sich singin 9 anywhere! 




CONTENTS 



PAGE 

All-Golden, The 105 

At Ninety in the Shade ...... 70 

August 38 

Ballade of the Coming Rain, The 118 

Brook-Song, The 137 

Circus Parade, The 63 

Clover, The 92 

Dawn, Noon and Dewfall 129 

Dream of Inspiration, A . 42 

Dream of Long Ago, A 172 

Fishing Party, The 94 

From Delphi to Camden . . . . . . . . . 103 

Fruit-Piece, A 168 

Full Harvest, A 87 

Glimpse of Pan, A 61 

Great God Pan, The 176 

Green Fields and Running Brooks 142 

Hoosier Spring-Poetry 82 

In Swimming-Time 75 

In the South 45 

June 133 

June at Woodruff . 184 



CONTENTS— Continued. 



PAGE 

King, The 110 

Laughing Song 54 

Laughter of the Rain, The 167 

Little Eed Ribbon, The . 134 

Lullaby 88 

McFeeters' Fourth 25 

Me and Mary 56 

'MONGST THE HlLLS O' SOMERSET „ 180 

Muskingum Valley, The . 120 

Noon Interval, A 125 

Old Friend, An 7 . 23 

Old Swimmin'-Hole, The 98 

On the Banks o' Deer Crick ....... 33 

One Afternoon 145 

Pan 183 

Pansies 41 

Pomona 47 

Shower, The 31 

Slumber-Song . 117 

Song, A 131 

Summer Afternoon, A ......... 140 

Summer Sunrise, A 157 

Summer's Day, A ........... 17 

Them Flowers 50 

Two Sonnets to the June-Bug . 160 

Uninterpreted 165 

Vision of Summer, A 147 

Water Color, A 164 

When June Is Here 30 

While the Musician Played . 80 

With the Current 112 

Wraith of Summertime, A 68 

Yellow-Bird, The 126 



RILEY SONGS OF SUMMER 




7" 



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A SUMMER'S DAY 

THE Summer's put the idy in 
My head that I'm a boy ag'in ; 
And all around's so bright and gay 
I want to put my team away, 
And jest git out whare I can lay 
And soak my hide full of the day! 
But work is work, and must be done — 
Yit, as I work, I have my fun, 
Jest fancyin' these furries here 
Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear : 

17 



A SUMMERS DAY 

And as I walk through medder-lands, 

And country lanes, and swampy trails 
Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands; 

And, tilted on the ridered rails 

Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White" 
Whissels his name in high delight, 
And whirrs away. I wunder still 
Whichever way a boy's feet will — 
Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops 

Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop f er breth, 
Heerin' the acorn as it drops — 

H'istixi' my chin up still as deth, 
And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes, 
The tree where Mr. Squirrel tries 
To hide hisse'f above the limb, 
But lets his own tale tell on him. 
I wunder on in deeper glooms — 

Git hungry, hearin' female cries 
From old farm-houses, whare perfumes 

Of harvest dinners seems to rise 
And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane, 
With memories he can't explane. 



18 









"V 









A SUMMERS DAY 

I wunder through the underbresh, 

Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick, 
Is picked and printed in the fresh 

Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick 
Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way, 
When bakin' fer camp-meetm' day. 
I wunder on and on and on, 
Tel my gray hair and beard is gone, 
And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow 
Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now 
With curls as brown and fare and fine 
As tenderls of the wild grape-vine 
That ust to climb the highest tree 
To keep the ripest ones fer me. 
I wunder still, and here I am 
Wadin' the ford below the dam — 
The worter chucklm' round my knee 

At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch, 
And me a-slippin' 'crost to see 

Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size 
The old man's wortermelon-patch, 

With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. 



21 



A SUMMER'S DAY 

Then, after sich a day of mirth 
And happiness as worlds is wurth — 

So tired that heaven seems nigh about,- 
The sweetest tiredness on earth 

Is to git home and flatten out — 
So tired you can't lay flat enugh, 
And sorto' wish that you could spred 
Out like molasses on the bed, 
And jest drip off the aidges in 
The dreams that never comes ag'in. 





»' 



AN OLD FRIEND 

HEY, Old Midsummer! are you here again, 
With all your harvest-store of olden joys, — 
Vast overhanging meadow-lands of rain, 
And drowsy dawns, and noons when golden grain 

Nods in the sun, and lazy truant boys 
Drift ever listlessly adown the day, 
Too full of joy to rest, and dreams to play. 

23 



AN OLD FKIEND 

The same old Summer, with the same old smile 
Beaming upon us in the same old way 

We knew in childhood ! Though a weary while 

Since that far time, yet memories reconcile 
The heart with odorous breaths of clover-hay ; 

And again I hear the doves, and the sun streams 
through 

The old barn-door just as it used to do. 

And so it seems like welcoming a friend — 
An old, old friend, upon his coming home 
From some far country — coming home to spend 
Long, loitering days with me: And I extend 
My hand in rapturous glee: — And so you've 
come !— 
Ho, I'm so glad! Come in and take a chair: 
Well this is just like old times, I declare! 




V 



McFEETERS' FOURTH 

IT was needless to say 'twas a glorious day, 
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way 
That our Forefathers had since the hour of the birth 
Of this most patriotic republic on earth! 
But 'twas justice, of course, to admit that the sight 
Of the old Stars-and-Stripes was a thing of delight 
In the eyes of a fellow, however he tried 
To look on the day with a dignified pride 
That meant not to brook any turbulent glee 
Or riotous flourish of loud jubilee! 

. 25 



McFEETERS' FOURTH 



So argued McFeeters, all grim and severe, 
Who the long night before, with a feeling of fear, 
Had slumbered but fitfully, hearing the swish 
Of the sky-rocket over his roof, with the wish 
That the boy-fiend who fired it were fast to the end 
Of the stick to for ever and ever ascend ! 
Or to hopelessly ask why the boy with the horn 
And its horrible havoc had ever been born! 
Or to wish, in his wakefulness, staring aghast, 
That this Fourth of July were as dead as the last ! 



So, yesterday morning, McFeeters arose, 
With a fire in his eyes, and a cold in his nose, 
And a guttural voice in appropriate k^y 
With a temper as gruff as a temper could be. 
He growled at the servant he met on the stair, 
Because he was whistling a national air, 
And he growled at the maid on the balcony, who 
Stood enrapt with the tune of "The Red-White-and- 

Blue" 
That a band was discoursing like mad in the street. 
With drumsticks that banged and with cymbals that 

beat. 



26 



McFEETERS' FOURTH 

And he growled at his wife, as she buttoned his vest, 
And applausively pinned a rosette on his breast 
Of the national colors, and lured from his purse 
Some change for the boys — for fire-crackers — or 

worse ; 
And she pointed with pride to a soldier in blue 
In a frame on the wall, and the colors there, too ; 
And he felt, as he looked on the features, the glow 
The painter found there twenty long years ago, 
And a passionate thrill in his breast, as he felt 
Instinctively round for the sword in his belt. 

What was it that hung like a mist o'er the room ? — 
The tumult without — and the music — the boom 
Of the cannon — the blare of the bugle and fife ? — 
No matter! — McFeeters was kissing his wife, 
And laughing and crying and waving his hat 
Like a genuine soldier, and crazy, at that! 
— Was it needless to say 'twas a glorious day 
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way 
That our Forefathers had since the hour of the birth 
Of this most patriotic republic on earth ? 







WHEN JUNE IS HERE 



WHEN June is here — what art have we to sing 
The whiteness of the lilies midst the green 

On noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen 
Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening 
Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling 

Round winey juices oozing down between 

The peckings of the robin, while we lean 
In under-grasses, lost in marveling? 

Or the cool term of morning, and the stir 
Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks, 

The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir 
Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks 
Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks 

The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer? 

30 




THE SHOWER 

THE landscape, like the awed face of a child, 
Grew curiously blurred ; a hush of death 
Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild 
The zephyr held its breath. 

No wavering glamour-work of light and shade 
Dappled the shivering surface of the brook ; 

The frightened ripples in their ambuscade 
Of willows thrilled and shook. 

eSl 



THE SHOWER 

The sullen day grew darker, and anon 
Dim flashes of pent anger lit the sky ; 

With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling on 
The storm's artillery. 

The cloud above put on its blackest frown, 
And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain, 

The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it down 
In ravelled shreds of rain : 

While I, transfigured by some wondrous art, 
Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, 

My empty soul brimmed over, and my heart 
Drenched with the love of God. 




\ 




^'**#4^ 



ON THE BANKS 0' DEER CRICK 

ON the banks o' Deer Crick ! There's the place f er 
me!— 
Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be : — 
See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky, 
And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' 
by; 



33 



ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK 

Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the 

trees — 
And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine 

and the breeze ! 
Well — I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the 

sea; 
On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough f er me ! 

On the banks o' Deer Crick — mild er two from 

town — 
'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafm* 

down, — 
Like to git up in there — 'mongst the sycamores — 
And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she 

pours : 
Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line, 
Where the fish is jes so thick, you kin see 'em shine 
As they flicker round yer bait, coaxin' you to jerk, 
Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as work! 

On the banks o' Deer Crick ! — Alius my delight 
Jes to be around there — take it day er night! — 
Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day — 
Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever' way ! — 

34 



ON THE BANKS 0' DEER CRICK 

Snakef eeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight ; 

And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at 
night — 

Stars up through the tree-tops — er in the crick be- 
low, — 

And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from 
the old b'y-o! 

Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to 

"Johnson's Hole," 
And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin'- 

pole: 
Have yer "dog-leg" with ye and yer pipe and "cut- 

and-dry" — 
Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye, — 
Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade — 
Like the Good Book tells us — "where there're none 

to make afraid!" 
Well! — I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the 

sea — 
On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough f er me ! 




AUGUST 

A DAY of torpor in the sullen heat 
Of Summer's passion : In the sluggish stream 
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, 
With drowsy eyes, and dream. 



Long since the winds have died, and in the sky 
There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; 

The sun glares ever like an evil eye, 
And withers flower and leaf. 

38 



AUGUST 

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote 
The thresher lies deserted, like some old 

Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat 
Upon a sea of gold. 

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird 
Above an empty nest, and truant boys 

Along the river's shady margin heard — 
A harmony of noise — 

A melody of wrangling voices blent 

With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls 

Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent 
To mimic waterfalls. 

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere 
Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, 

The sifted glances of the sun appear 
In splinterings of spray. 

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, 
Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, 

A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on 
His journey to the sky. 

39 



AUGUST 

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, 
Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, 

The forest stands in silence, drinking deep 
Its purple wine of shade. 

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing ; 

The sailor-vision voyages the skies 
And carries into chaos everything 

That freights the weary eyes : 

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat 
Increases — reaches — passes fever's height, 

And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, 
Within the arms of Night. 




PANSIES 

PANSIES! Pansies! How I love you, pansies ! 
Jaunty-faced, laughing-lipped and dewy-eyed 
with glee; 
Would my song but blossom in little five-leaf stanzas 
As delicate in fancies 
As your beauty is to me ! 

But my eyes shall smile on you, and my hands infold 
you, 
Pet, caress, and lift you to the lips that love you so, 
That, shut ever in the years that may mildew or 
mould you, 

My fancy shall behold you 
Fair as in the long ago. 
41 




A DREAM OF INSPIRATION 

TO loll back, in a misty hammock, swung 
From tip to tip of a slim crescent moon 

That gems some royal-purple night of June — 
To dream of songs that never have been sung 
Since the first stars were stilled and God was young 

And heaven as lonesome as a lonesome tune : 

To lie thus, lost to earth, with lids aswoon ; 
By curious, cool winds back and forward flung, 

With fluttering hair, blurred eyes, and utter ease 
Adrift like lazy blood through every vein ; 

And then, — the pulse of unvoiced melodies 
Timing the raptured sense to some refrain 

That knows nor words, nor rhymes, nor euphonies, 

Save Fancy's hinted chime of unknown seas. 

42 



) 



, 




IN THE SOUTH 

THERE is a princess in the South 
About whose beauty rumors hum 
Like honey-bees about the mouth 
Of roses dewdrops falter from ; 
And her hair is like the fine 
Clear amber of a jostled wine 
In tropic revels ; and her eyes 
Are blue as rifts of Paradise. 
45 



IN THE SOUTH 

Such beauty as may none before 

Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips 
Of fingers such as knights of yore 
Had died to lift against their lips : 
Such eyes as might the eyes of gold 
Of all the stars of night behold 
With glittering envy, and so glare 
In dazzling splendor of despair. 

So, were I but a minstrel, deft 

At weaving, with the trembling strings 
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft 
Of rondels such as rapture sings, — 
I'd loop my lyre across my breast, 
Nor stay me till my knee found rest 
In midnight banks of bud and flower 
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower. 

And there, drenched with the teary dews, 

Td woo her with such wondrous art 
As well might stanch the songs that ooze 
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart ; 
So light, so tender, and so sweet 
Should be the words I would repeat, 
Her casement, on my gradual sight, 
Would blossom as a lily might. 
46 




POMONA 

OH, the golden afternoon ! — 
Like a ripened summer day 
That had fallen oversoon 

In the weedy orchard-way — 
As an apple, ripe in June. 

He had left his fishrod leant 

O'er the footlog by the spring — 

Clomb the hill-path's high ascent, 
Whence a voice, down showering, 

Lured him, wondering as he went. 
47 



POMONA 

Not the voice of bee nor bird, 
Nay, nor voice of man nor child, 

Nor the creek's shoal-alto heard 

Blent with warblings sweet and wild 

Of the midstream, music-stirred. 

'Twas a goddess ! As the air 
Swirled to eddying silence, he 

Glimpsed about him, half aware 
Of some subtle sorcery 

Woven round him everywhere. 

Suavest slopes of pleasaunce, sown 
With long lines of fruited trees 

Weighed o'er grasses all unmown 
But by scythings of the breeze 

In prone swaths that flashed and shone 

Like silk locks of Faunus sleeked 
This, that way, and contrawise, 

Thro' whose bredes ambrosial leaked 
Oily amber sheens and dyes, 

Starred with petals purple-freaked. 



48 



POMONA 

Here the bellflower swayed and swung, 
Greenly belf ried high amid 

Thick leaves in whose covert sung 
Hermit-thrush, or katydid, 

Or the glowworm nightly clung. 

Here the damson, peach and pear; 

There the plum, in Tyrian tints, 
Like great grapes in clusters rare ; 

And the metal-heavy quince 
Like a plummet dangled there. 

All ethereal, yet all 

Most material, — a theme 
Of some fabled festival — 

Save the fair face of his dream 
Smiling o'er the orchard wall. 



THEM FLOWERS 

TAKE a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, 
All-shaky, and ga'nted, and pore — 
Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself 

With a stiff upper-lip any more ; 
Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room 

As dark as the tomb, and as grim, 
And then take and send him some roses in bloom, 
And you can have fun out o' him ! 

You've ketched him 'fore now — when his liver was 
sound 

And his appetite notched like a saw — 
A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round 

With a big posy-bunch in yer paw ; 
But you ketch him, say, when his health is away, 

And he's flat on his back in distress, 
And then you kin trot out yer little bokay 

And not be insulted, I guess ! 



50 



! 




THEM FLOWERS 

You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is, — 

Them flowers makes him think of the days 
Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, 

And the roses that she us't to raise : — 
So here, all alone with the roses you send — 

Bern* sick and all trimbly and faint, — 
My eyes is — my eyes is — my eyes is — old friend — 

Is a-leakin' — I'm blamed ef they ain't! 





LAUGHING SONG 



SING us something full of laughter ; 
Tune your harp, and twang the strings 
Till your glad voice, chirping after, 
Mates the song the robin sings : 
Loose your lips and let them flutter 
Like the wings of wanton birds, — 
Though they naught but laughter utter, 
Laugh, and we'll not miss the words. 



A 



54 



LAUGHING SONG 

Sing in ringing tones that mingle 

In a melody that flings 
Joyous echoes in a jingle 

Sweeter than the minstrel sings : 
Sing of Winter, Spring or Summer, 

Clang of war, or low of herds ; 
Trill of cricket, roll of drummer — 

Laugh, and we'll not miss the words. 

Like the lisping laughter glancing 

From the meadow brooks and springs, 
Or the river's ripples dancing 

To the tune the current sings — 
Sing of Now, and the Hereafter ; 

Let your glad song, like the birds', 
Overflow with limpid laughter — 

Laugh, and we'll not miss the words. 




ME AND MARY 



ALL my feelin's in the Spring 
Gits so blame contrary, 
I can't think of anything 

Only me and Mary ! 
"Me and Mary!" all the time, 
"Me and Mary !" like a rhyme, 
Keeps a-dingin' on till I'm 
Sick o' "Me and Mary!" 
56 



ME AND MARY 

"Me and Mary ! Ef us two 

Only was together — 
Playin' like we used to do 

In the Aprile weather!" 
All the night and all the day 
I keep wishin' thataway 
Till I'm gittin' old and gray 

Jes on "Me and Mary !" 

Muddy yit along the pike 
Sence the Winter's freezing 

And the orchard's back'ard-like 
Bloomin' out this season ; 

Only heerd one bluebird yit — 

Nary robin ner tomtit ; 

What's the how and why of it? 
'Spect it's "Me and Mary!" 

Me and Mary liked the birds — 

That is, Mary sorto' 
Liked 'em first, and afterwards, 

W'y, I thought I'd ort'o. 
And them birds — ef Mary stood 
Right here with me, like she should — 
They'd be singin', them birds would, 

All fer me and Mary. 
59 



ME AND MARY 

Birds er not, I'm hopin' some 
I can git to plowin' ! 

Ef the sun'll only come, 
And the Lord allowin', 

Guess to-morry I'll turn in 

And git down to work ag'in ; 

This here loaferin' won't win, 
Not f er me and Mary ! 

Fer a man that loves, like me, 

And's afeard to name it, 
Till some other feller, he 

Gits the girl — dad-shame-it 
Wet er dry, er clouds er sun — 
Winter gone er jes begun — 
Outdoor work fer me er none, 
No more "Me and Mary !" 





A GLIMPSE OF PAN 



I CAUGHT but a glimpse of him. Summer was 
here, 
And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat 
And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, 
Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere 

Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet 
From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer 
O'er the grasses, green and sweet. 

61 



A GLIMPSE OF PAN 

And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, 
Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept 

To the face of a river, that answered these 

With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, 
Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept 

And kissed them, with quavering ecstasies, 
And gurgled and laughed and wept. 

And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear 
I saw Pan lying, — his limbs in the dew 

And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare 

Of the glad sunshine ; while everywhere, 
Over, across, and around him blew 

Filmy dragonflies hither and there, 

And little white butterflies, two and two, 
In eddies of odorous air. 





T 



THE CIRCUS PARADE 



HE Circus!— The Circus!— The throb of the 
drums, 
And the blare of the horns, as the Band-wagon 

comes ; 
The clash and the clang of the cymbals that beat, 
As the glittering pageant winds down the long 
street ! 



In the Circus parade there is glory clean down 
From the first spangled horse to the mule of the 

Clown, 
With the gleam and the glint and the glamour and 

glare 
Of the days of enchantment all glimmering there ! 

63 



THE CIRCUS PARADE 

And there are the banners of silvery fold 
Caressing the winds with their fringes of gold, 
And their high-lifted standards, with spear-tips 

aglow, 
And the helmeted knights that go riding below. 

There's the Chariot, wrought of some marvelous shell 
The Sea gave to Neptune, first washing it well 
With its fabulous waters of gold, till it gleams 
Like the galleon rare of an Argonaut's dreams. 

And the Elephant, too, (with his undulant stride 
That rocks the high throne of a king in his pride) , 
That in jungles of India shook from his flanks 
The tigers that leapt from the Jujubee-banks. 

Here's the long, ever-changing, mysterious line 
Of the Cages, with hints of their glories divine 
From the barred little windows, cut high in the rear, 
Where the close-hidden animals' noses appear. 

Here's the Pyramid-car, with its splendor and flash, 
And the Goddess on high, in a hot-scarlet sash 
And a pen-wiper skirt! — Oh, the rarest of sights 
Is this "Queen of the Air" in cerulean tights ! 

64 



THE CIRCUS PARADE 

Then the far-away clash of the cymbals, and then 
The swoon of the tune ere it wakens again 
With the capering tones of the gallant cornet 
That go dancing away in a mad minuet. 

The Circus ! — The Circus ! — The throb of the drums, 
And the blare of the horns, as the Band-wagon 

comes ; 
The clash and the clang of the cymbals that beat, 
As the glittering pageant winds down the long 

street. 



m 





A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME 

IN its color, shade and shine, 
'Twas a summer warm as wine, 
With an effervescent flavoring of flowered 

bough and vine, 
And a fragrance and a taste 
Of ripe roses gone to waste, 
And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and 
star-light interlaced. 
68 



A WRAITH OF SUMMERTIME 

'Twas a summer such as broods 

O'er enchanted solitudes, 

Where the hand of Fancy leads us through 

voluptuary moods, 
And with lavish love out-pours 
All the wealth of out-of-doors, 
And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and 

honeysuckle floors. 

Twas a summertime long dead, — 

And its roses, white and red, 

And its reeds and water-lilies down along 

the river-bed, — 
Oh, they all are ghostly things — 
For the ripple never sings, 
And the rocking lily never even rustles as 

it rings! 






I 



AT NINETY IN THE SHADE 

HOT weather? Yes ; but really not, 
Compared with weather twice as hot, 
Find comfort, then, in arguing thus, 
And you'll pull through victorious ! — 
For instance, while you gasp and pant 
And try to cool yourself — and can't — 
With soda, cream and lemonade, 
The heat at ninety in the shade, — 
Just calmly sit and ponder o'er 
These same degrees, with ninety more 
On top of them, and so concede 
The weather now is cool indeed ! 

70 



AT NINETY IN THE SHADE 

Think — as the perspiration dews 
Your fevered brow, and seems to ooze 
From out the ends of every hair — 
Whole floods of it, with floods to spare — 
Think, I repeat, the while the sweat 
Pours down your spine — how hotter yet 
Just ninety more degrees would be, 
And bear this ninety patiently ! 
Think — as you mop your brow and hair, 
With sticky feelings everywhere — 
How ninety more degrees increase 
Of heat like this would start the grease ; 
Or, think, as you exhausted stand, 
A wilted "palmleaf" in each hand — 
When the thermometer has done 
With ease the lap of ninety-one ; 
Oh, think, I say, what heat might do 
At one hundred and eighty-two — 
Just twice the heat you now declare, 
Complainingly, is hard to bear. 
Or, as you watch the mercury 
Mount, still elate, one more degree, 
And doff your collar and cravat, 
And rig a sponge up in your hat, 

73 



AT NINETY IN THE SHADE 

And ask Tom, Harry, Dick, or Jim, 
If this is hot enough for him — 
Consider how the sun would pour 
At one hundred and eighty-four — 
Just twice the heat that seems to be 
Affecting you unpleasantly, 
The very hour that you might find 
As cool as dew, were you inclined. 
But why proceed when none will heed 
Advice apportioned to the need ? 
Hot weather? Yes ; but really not, 
Compared with weather twice as hot! 





IN SWIMMING-TIME 

CLOUDS above, as white as wool 9 
Drifting over skies as blue 
As the eyes of beautiful 

Children when they smile at you : 
Groves of maple, elm and beech, 

With the sunshine sifted through 
Branches, mingling each with each, 
Dim with shade and bright with dew< 

Stripling trees,, and poplars hoar, 
Hickory and sycamore, 
And the drowsy dogwood, bowed 
Where the ripples laugh aloud, 

75 



IN SWIMMING-TIME 

And the crooning creek is stirred 

To a gaiety that now 
Mates the warble of the bird, 

Teetering on the hazel-bough. 

Grasses long and fine and fair 

As your schoolboy-sweetheart's hair 

Backward stroked and twirled and twined 

By the fingers of the wind : 

Vines and mosses interlinked 

Down dark aisles and deep ravines, 
Where the stream runs, willow-brinked, 

Round a bend where some one leans, 
Faint, and vague, and indistinct 

As the like-reflected thing 

In the current shimmering. 

Childish voices, further on, 
Where the truant stream has gone, 
Vex the echoes of the wood 
Till no word is understood — 
Save that we are well aware 
Happiness is hiding there : — 



76 






IN SWIMMING-TIME 

There, in leafy coverts, nude 

Little bodies poise and leap, 
Spattering the solitude 
And the silence, everywhere — - 
Mimic monsters of the deep ! — 

Wallowing in sandy shoals — 
Plunging headlong out of sight, 
And, with spurtings of delight, 

Clutching hands, and slippery soles, 
Climbing up the treacherous steep, 

Over which the spring-board spurns 

Each again as he returns! 

Ah ! the glorious carnival ! 

Purple lips — and chattering teeth — 
Eyes that burn — But, in beneath, 

Every care beyond recall — 
Every task forgotten quite — 
And again in dreams at night, 

Dropping, drifting through it all! 




% 




X 



w» 



. / 



WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED 



OIT was but a dream I had 
While the musician played! — 
And here the sky, and here the glad 

Old ocean kissed the glade — 
And here the laughing ripples ran. 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kis^ to every man 
That voyaged with the crew. 

Our silken sails in lazy folds 

Drooped in the breathless breeze : 
As o'er a field of marigolds 

Our eyes swam o'er the seas ; 
While here the eddies lisped and purled 

Around the island's rim, 
And up from out the underworld 

We saw the mermen swim. 

80 



WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED 

And it was dawn and middle-day 

And midnight — for the moon 
On silver rounds across the bay 

Had climbed the skies of June — 
And there the glowing, glorious king 

Of day ruled o'er his realm, 
With stars of midnight glittering 

About his diadem. 

The seagull reeled on languid wing 

In circles round the mast, 
We heard the songs the sirens sing 

As we went sailing past; 
And up and down the golden sands 

A thousand fairy throngs 
Flung at us from their flashing hands 

The echoes of their songs. 

0, it was but a dream I had 

While the musician played— 
For here the sky, and here the glad 

Old ocean kissed the glade ; 
And here the laughing ripples ran 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 

That voyaged with the crew. 

81 




HOOSIER SPRING-POETRY 



W 



HEN ever'thing's a-goin' like she's got-a-goin' 
now, — 
The maple-sap a-drippin', and the buds on ever' 

bough 
A-sorto' reachin' up'ards all a-trimblin', ever' one, 
Like 'bout a million brownie-fists a-shakin' at the 
sun! 

82 



HOOSIER SPRING-POETRY 

The childern wants their shoes off 'fore their break- 
fast, and the Spring 

Is here so good-and-plenty that the old hen has to 
sing ! — 

When things is goin' thisaway, w'y, that's the sign, 
you know, 

That ever'thing's a-goin' like we like to see her go ! 

Oh, ever'thing's a-goin' like we like to see her go ! 
Old Winter's up and dusted, with his dratted frost 

and snow — 
The ice is out the crick ag'in, the freeze is out the 

ground, 
And you'll see faces thawin' too ef you'll jes look 

around ! — 
The bluebird's landin' home ag'in, and glad to git 

the chance, 
'Cause here's where he belongs at, that's a settled 

circumstance ! 
And him and mister robin now's a-chunirf fer the 

show. 
Oh, ever'thing's a-goin' like we like to see her go ! 



85 



HOOSIER SPRING-POETRY 

The sun ain't jes p'tendin' now!— The ba'm is in the 

breeze — 
The trees'll soon be green as grass, and grass as 

green as trees; 
The buds is all jes eechin', and the dogwood down 

the run 
Is bound to bu'st out laughin' 'fore another week is 

done ; 
The bees is waking gap'y-like, and f umblin' fer their 

buzz, 
A-thinkin', ever-wakef uler, of other days that wuz, — 
When all the land wuz orchard-blooms and clover, 

don't you know. ... 
Oh, ever'thing's a-goin' like we like to see her go ! 





A FULL HARVEST 

SEEMS like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day 
Git down and roll and waller, don't you know 

In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, 
Seem' sich craps ! Til undertake to say 
There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway 

Afore this season ! — Folks is keerless tho\ 

And too fergitf ul — 'caze we'd ort 'o show 
More thankfulness! — Jes' looky hyonder, hey?- - 

And watch that little reaper wadin' thue 
That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground — 

Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two 
Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around 

The field — like it had nothin' else to do 

On'y jes' waste it all on me and you! 

87 




LULLABY 



THE maple strews the embers of its leaves 
O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the 
eaves ; 
And the moody cricket falters in his cry — Baby- 
bye!— 
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky — Baby- 
bye! — 
The lid of night is falling o'er the sky! 

88 



LULLABY 

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup 

Of the frosted calla-lily folded up ; 

And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh — 

Baby-bye ! — 
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie — * 

Baby-bye ! — 
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they 

lie! 

Yet, Baby — my Baby, for your sake 
This heart of mine is ever wide awake, 
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye — Baby- 
bye! — 
Till your own are wet above me when I die — Baby- 
bye ! — 
Till your own are wet above me when I die. 





THE CLOVER 

SOME sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, 
And the pansies and pinks that the Summer- 
time throws 
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays 
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days ; 
But what is the lily and all of the rest 
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest 
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew 
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew? 



92 



THE CLOVER 

I never set eyes on a clover-field now, 

Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, 

But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as 

plane 
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again ; 
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, 
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam 
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love 
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above. 

And so I love clover — it seems like a part 
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart; 
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow 
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now ; 
And I pray to Him still f er the stren'th when I die, 
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, 
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom 
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume. 





THE FISHING PARTY 

WUNST we went a-fishm'— Me 
An' my Pa an' Ma all three s 
When they was a pic-nic, 'way 
Out to Hanch's woods, one day. 

An' they was a crick out there, 
Where the fishes is, an' where 
Little boys 'taint big an' strong, 
Better have their folks along ! 

94 



THE FISHING PARTY 

My Pa he ist fished an' fished ! 
An' my Ma she said she wished 
Me an' her was home ; an' Pa 
Said he wished so worse'n Ma. 

Pa said ef you talk, er say 
Anything, er sneeze, er play, 
Hain't no fish, alive er dead, 
Ever go' to bite ! he said. 

Purt' nigh dark in town when we 
Got back home ; an' Ma says she, 
Now she'll have a fish fer shore! 
An' she buyed one at the store. 

Nen at supper, Pa he won't 
Eat no fish, an' says he don't 
Like 'em. — An' he pounded me 
When I choked! . . . Ma, didn't he? 





THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 

OH! the old swimmin'-hole ! Whare the crick so 
still and deep 
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, 
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest 

below 
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to 

know 
Before we could remember anything but the eyes 
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise ; 
But the merry days of Youth is beyond our controle, 
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmm'- 
hole. 

98 



THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole ! In the happy days of 

yore, 
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, 
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide 
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, 
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress 
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. 
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck 

his toll 
From the old man come back to the old swimmm'- 

hole. 

Oh ! the old swimmin'-hole ! In the long, lazy days 
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a- 

ways, 
How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, 
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so 

plane 
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole 
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmm'- 

hole. 
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow 

roll 
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'- 

hole. 

101 



THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 

Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, 
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all ; 
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold 
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled ; 
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by 
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, 
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle, 
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swim- 
min'-hole. 

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole ! When I last saw the 

place, 
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my 

face ; 
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot 
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. 
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to 

be — 
But never again will theyr shade shelter me ! 
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, 
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole. 



FROM DELPHI TO CAMDEN 



FROM Delphi to Camden — little Hoosier towns, — 
But here were classic meadows, blooming dales 
and downs; 
And here were grassy pastures, dewy as the leas 
Trampled over by the trains of royal pageantries ! 

And here the winding highway loitered through the 

shade 
Of the hazel covert, where, in ambuscade, 
Loomed the larch and linden, and the greenwood-tree 
Under which bold Robin Hood loud hallooed to me! 

Here the stir and riot of the busy day 
Dwindled to the quiet of the breath of May; 
Gurgling brooks, and ridges lily-marged and spanned 
By the rustic bridges found in Wonderland ! 

103 



FROM DELPHI TO CAMDEN 

From Delphi to Camden, — from Camden back 
again ! — 

And now the night was on us, and the lightning and 
the rain ; 

And still the way was wondrous with the flash of 
hill and plain,-- 

The stars like printed asterisks— the moon a murky- 
stain ! 

And I thought of tragic idyl, and of flight and hot 

pursuit, 
And the jingle of the bridle and cuirass and spur on 

boot, 
As our horses' hooves struck showers from the flinty 

boulders set 
In freshet-ways of writhing reed and drowning 

violet. 

And we passed beleaguered castles, with their battle- 
ments a-frown; 

Where a tree fell in the forest was a turret toppled 
down ; 

While my master and commander— the brave knight 
I galloped with 

On this reckless road to ruin or to fame was — Dr. 
Smith! 

104 




THE ALL-GOLDEN 

I 

THROUGH every happy line I sing 
I feel the tonic of the Spring. 
The day is like an old-time face 
That gleams across some grassy place- 
An old-time face — an old-time chum 
Who rises from the grave to come 
And lure me back along the ways 
Of time's all-golden yesterdays. 

105 



THE ALL-GOLDEN 

Sweet day! to thus remind me of 
The truant boy I used to love — 
To set, once more, his finger-tips 
Against the blossom of his lips, 
And pipe for me the signal known 
By none but him and me alone ! 



II 

I see, across the school-room floor, 

The shadow of the open door, 

And dancing dust and sunshine blent 

Slanting the way the morning went, 

And beckoning my thoughts afar 

Where reeds and running waters are ; 

Where amber-colored bayous glass 

The half-drown'd weeds and wisps of grass. 

Where sprawling frogs, in loveless key, 

Sing on and on incessantly. 

Against the green wood's dim expanse 

The cattail tilts its tufted lance, 

While on its tip — one might declare 

The white "snake-feeder" blossomed there! 



106 



THE ALL-GOLDEN 

III 

I catch my breath as children do 
In woodland swings when life is new, 
And all the blood is warm as wine 
And tingles with a tang divine. 
My soul soars up the atmosphere 
And sings aloud where God can hear, 
And all my being leans intent 
To mark His smiling wonderment. 
gracious dream, and gracious time, 
And gracious theme, and gracious rhyme- 
When buds of Spring begin to blow 
In blossoms that we used to know 
And lure us back along the ways 
Of time's all-golden yesterdays ! 




THE KING 

THEY rode right out of the morning sun- 
A glimmering, glittering cavalcade 
Of knights and ladies and every one 

In princely sheen arrayed ; 
And the king of them all, he rode ahead, 
With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red 
That spurted about in the breeze and bled 
In the bloom of the everglade. 

And they rode right over the dewy lawn, 
With brave, glad banners of every hue 
That rolled in ripples, as they rode on 

In splendor, two and two; 
And the tinkling links of the golden reins 
Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains 
As the castanets in a dream of Spain's 
Intensest gold and blue. 

110 



THE KING 

And they rode and rode ; and the steeds they neighed 

And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides 
Flickered and lightened and glanced and played 

Like the moon on rippling tides; 
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, 
And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, 
And jostled in time to the teeming throng, 

And their knightly song besides. 

Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, 

And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild 
In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her 

As one at a wilful child, — 
And as knight and lady away they flew, 
And the banners flapped, and the falcon, too, 
And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, 

He kissed his hand and smiled. — 

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, 

The pageant glittered across the plain, 
And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower 

Was only a crimson stain. 
And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, 
A.s he blends these words with the wailing blast : 
''It is the King of the Year rides past!" 
And Autumn is here again. 

Ill 




WITH THE CURRENT 

RAREST mood of all the year! 
Aimless, idle, and content — 
Sky and wave and atmosphere 
Wholly indolent. 

Little daughter, loose the band 

From your tresses — let them pour 
Shadow-like o'er arm and hand 
Idling at the oar. 
112 



WITH THE CURRENT 

Low and clear, and pure and deep, 

Ripples of the river sing — 
Water-lilies, half asleep, 

Drowsed with listening: 

Tremulous reflex of skies — 

Skies above and skies below, — 
Paradise and Paradise 
Blending even so ! 

Blossoms with their leaves unrolled 

Laughingly, as they were lips 
Cleft with ruddy beaten gold 
Tongues of pollen-tips. 

Rush and reed, and thorn and vine, 

Clumped with grasses lithe and tall- 
With a web of summer-shine 
Woven round it all. 

Back and forth, and to and fro — 

Flashing scale and wing as one, — 
Dragon-flies that come and go, 
Shuttled by the sun. 

115 



WITH THE CURRENT 

Fairy lilts and lullabies, 

Fine as fantasy conceives, — 
Echoes wrought of cricket-cries 
Sifted through the leaves. 

O'er the rose, with drowsy buzz, 

Hangs the bee, and stays his kiss, 
Even as my fancy does, 
Gypsy, over this. 

Let us both be children — share 

Youth's glad voyage night and day. 
Drift adown it, half aware, 
Anywhere we may. — 

Drift and curve and deviate, 

Veer and eddy, float and flow, 
Waver, swerve and undulate, 
As the bubbles go. 







SLUMBER-SONG 

SLEEP, little one! The Twilight folds her gloom 
Full tenderly about the drowsy Day, 
And all his tinseled hours of light and bloom 

Like toys are laid away. 
Sleep ! sleep ! The noon-sky's airy cloud of white 

Has deepened wide o'er all the azure plain ; 
And, trailing through the leaves, the skirts of Night 
Are wet with dews as rain. 

But rest thou sweetly, smiling in thy dreams, 

With round fists tossed like roses o'er thy head, 
And thy tranc'd lips and eyelids kissed with gleams 
Of rapture perfected. 

117 




THE BALLADE OF THE COMING RAIN 

TV HEX the morning s? a ts highest heat. 

▼ ▼ And the sunshine dims, and no dark shade 
eaks the dust of the dazzling street, 
And the long straw splits in the lemonade: 
When the circus lags in a sad parade. 
And the drum throbs dull of pain. 

And the breezeless flags hang limp and frayed — 
Oh, then is the time to look for rain. 

118 



THE BALLADE OF THE COMING RAIN 

When the man on the watering cart bumps by, 

Trilling the air of an old fife-tune, 
With a dull, soiled smile, and one shut eye, 

Lost in a dream of the afternoon ; 

When the awning sags like a lank balloon, 
And a thick sweat stands on the window-pane, 

And a five-cent fan is a priceless boon — 
Oh, then is the time to look for rain. 

When the goldfish tank is a grimy gray, 

And the dummy stands at the clothing store 
With a cap pulled on in a rakish way, . 

And a rubber-coat with the hind before; 

When the man in the barber chair flops o'er 
And the chin he wags has a telltale stain, 

And the bootblack lurks at the open door — 
Oh, then is the time to look for rain. 





r- 



THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 



THE Muskingum Valley! — How long-in' the gaze 
A feller throws back on its long summer-days, 
When the smiles of its blossoms and my smiles wuz 

one- 
And-the-same, from the rise to the set o' the sun : 

120 



THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 

Wher' the hills sloped as soft as the dawn down to 

noon, 
And the river run by like an old fiddle-tune, 
And the hours glided past as the bubbles 'ud glide, 
All so loaferin'-like, 'long the path o' the tide. 

In the Muskingum Valley — it 'peared like the skies 
Looked lovin' on me as my own mother's eyes, 
While the laughin'-sad song of the stream seemed 

to be 
Like a lullaby angels was wastin' on me — 
Tel, swimmin' the air, like the gossamer's thread, 
'Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead, 
My thoughts went a-stray in that so-to-speak realm 
Wher' Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them. 

In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far a-way, 
I know that the winter is bleak there to-day — 
No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees — 
Wher' the buds used to bloom, now the icicles 

freeze. — 
That the grass is all hid 'long the side of the road 
Wher' the deep snow has drifted and shifted and 

blowed — 
And I feel in my life the same changes is there, — 
The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair. 

123 



THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 

But, Muskingum Valley ! my memory sees 

Not the white on the ground, but the green in the 

trees — 
Not the froze'-over gorge, but the current, as clear 
And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here; 
Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with 

snow, 
But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago 
When my little bare feet wundered down wher' the 

stream 
In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream. 





A NOON INTERVAL 

A DEEP, delicious hush in earth and sky — 
A gracious lull — since, from its wakening, 

The morn has been a feverish, restless thing 
In which the pulse of Summer ran too high 
And riotous, as though its heart went nigh 

To bursting with delights past uttering: 

Now, as an o'er joyed child may cease to sing 
All falteringly at play, with drowsy eye 

Draining the pictures of a fairy-tale 
To brim his dreams with — there comes o'er the day 

A loathful silence, wherein all sounds fail 
Like loitering tones of some faint roundelay . . . 

No wakeful effort longer may avail — 
The wand waves, and the dozer sinks away. 

125 



THE YELLOW-BIRD 

HEY ! my little Yellow-bird 5 
What you doing there? 
Like a flashing sun-ray, 
Flitting everywhere: 
Dangling down the tall weeds 

And the hollyhocks, 
And the lordly sunflowers 
Along the garden-walks. 

Ho ! my gallant Golden-bill, 

Pecking 'mongst the weeds, 
You must have for breakfast 

Golden flower-seeds: 
Won't you tell a little fellow 

What you have for tea ? — 
'Spect a peck o' yellow, mellow 

Pippin on the tree. 
126 




DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL 



DAWN, noon and dewf all ! Bluebird and robin 
Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms 
bobbin' ! 
Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wishin* 
I could go to sleep ag'in as well as go a-fishin' ! 

129 



DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL 

On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, 
Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' 

clover : 
Fish all out a-visitin' — 'cept some dratted minnor! 
Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to 

dinner. 

Trompin' home acrost the fields : Lightnin'-bugs a- 

blinkin' 
In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps 

a-thinkin' : — 
Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to 

cherr me ! 
And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' f er me ! 








A SONG 

THERE is ever a song somewhere, my dear; 
There is ever a something sings alway : 
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, 
And the song of the thrush when the skies are 
gray 
The sunshine showers across the grain, 

And the bluebird trills in the orchard trees ; 
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, 
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

Be the skies above or dark or fair, 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear — 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — 

There is ever a song somewhere! 

131 



A SONG 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue : 
The robin pipes when the sun is here, 

And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. 
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, 

And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear; 
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

Be the skies above or dark or fair, 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear — 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — 

There is ever a song somewhere! 



rp* 



, ^v 



JUNE 

QUEENLY month of indolent repose! 
I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, 
As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom 
I nestle like a drowsy child and doze 
The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws 
The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom 
And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom 
Before thy listless feet. The lily blows 
A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade ; 

And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and 
spear, 
Thy harvest-armies gather on parade ; 

While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, 
A voice calls out of alien lands of shade: — 
All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! 

133 



THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 

THE little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 
The summertime comes and the summertime 
goes — 
And never a blossom in all of the land 
As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand! 

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows ; 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 
And never a glimmer of sun in the skies 
As bright as the light of her glorious eyes ! 

Dreams only are true ; but they fade and are gone — 
For her face is not here when I waken at dawn ; 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose 
Mine only ; hers only the dream and repose. 

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, 
And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, 
Moaning over the one only song that it knows, — 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 

134 




THE BROOK-SONG 



L 



ITTLE brook! Little brook! 
You have such a happy look — 
Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and 
curve and crook — 
And your ripples, one and one, 
Reach each other's hands and run 

Like laughing little children in the sun! 
137 



THE BROOK-SONG 

Little brook, sing to me: 
Sing about a bumblebee 
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled 
mumblingly, 
Because he wet the film 
Of his wings, and had to swim, 

While the water-bugs raced round and 
laughed at him ! 

Little brook — sing a song 
Of a leaf that sailed along 
Down the golden-braided centre of your current 
swift and strong, 
And a dragon-fly that lit 
On the tilting rim of it, 

And rode away and wasn't scared a bit. 

And sing — how oft in glee 
Came a truant boy like me, 
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting 
melody, 
Till the gurgle and refrain 
Of your music in his brain 

Wrought a happiness as keen to him as 
pain. 

138 



THE BROOK-SONG 

Little brook — laugh and leap! 
Do not let the dreamer weep : 
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in 
softest sleep; 
And then sing soft and low 
Through his dreams of long ago — 

Sing back to him the rest he used to 
know! 





A SUMMER AFTERNOON 

A LANGUID atmosphere, a lazy breeze, 
With labored respiration, moves the wheat 
From distant reaches, till the golden seas 
Break in crisp whispers at my feet. 

My book, neglected of an idle mind, 

Hides for a moment from the eyes of men ; 

Or, lightly opened by a critic wind, 
Affrightedly reviews itself again. 

Off though the haze that dances in the shine 
The warm sun showers in the open glade, 

The forest lies, a silhouette design 

Dimmed through and through with shade. 

140 



A SUMMER AFTERNOON 

A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie 

At anchor from all storms of mental strain ; 

With absent vision, gazing at the sky, 
"Like one that hears it rain." 

The Katydid, so boisterous last night, 
Clinging, inverted, in uneasy poise, 

Beneath a wheat-blade, has forgotten quite 
If "Katy did or didn't" make a noise. 

The twitter, sometimes, of a wayward bird 
That checks the song abruptly at the sound, 

And mildly, chiding echoes that have stirred, 
Sink into silence, all the more profound. 

And drowsily I hear the plaintive strain 
Of some poor dove . . . Why, I can 
scarcely keep 
My heavy eyelids — there it is again — 
"Coo-coo !"— I mustn't— "Coo-coo !"— fall 
asleep ! 



GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS 

HO ! green fields and running brooks ! 
Knotted strings and fishing-hooks 
Of the truant, stealing down 
Weedy back-ways of the town. 

Where the sunshine overlooks, 
By green fields and running brooks, 
All intruding guests of chance 
With a golden tolerance. 

Cooing doves, or pensive pair 
Of picnickers, straying there — 
By green fields and running brooks, 
Sylvan shades and mossy nooks ! 

And — Dreamer of the Days, 
Murmurer of roundelays 
All unsung of words or books, 
Sing green fields and running brooks ! 
142 




B 



ONE AFTERNOON 

ELOW, cool grasses : over us 
The maples waver tremulous. 



A slender overture above, 

Low breathing as a sigh of love. 

At first, then gradually strong 
And stronger : 'tis the locust's song, 

Swoln midway to a paean of glee, 
And lost in silence dwindlingly. 

Not utter silence ; nay, for hid 
In ghosts of it, the katydid 

Chirrs a diluted echo of 
The loveless song he makes us love. 
145 



ONE AFTERNOON 

The low boughs are drugged heavily 
With shade ; the poem you read to me 

Is not more gracious than the trill 
Of birds that twitter as they will. 

Half consciously, with upturned eyes, 
I hear your voice — I see the skies, 

Where, o'er bright rifts, the swallows 

glance 
Like glad thoughts o'er a countenance ; 

And voices near and far are blent 
Like sweet chords of some instrument 

Awakened by the trembling touch 
Of hands that love it overmuch. 

Dear heart, let be the book a while ! 
I want your face — I want your smile ! 

Tell me how gladder now are they 
Who look on us from Heaven to-day. 





A VISION OF SUMMER 

}npWAS a marvelous vision of Summer.- 
J- That morning the dawn was late, 

And came, like a long dream-ridden guest, 
Through the gold of the Eastern gate. 

Languid it came, and halting 
As one that yawned, half roused, 

With lifted arms and indolent lids 
And eyes that drowsed and drowsed. 

147 



A VISION OF SUMMER 

A glimmering haze hung over 

The face of the smiling air; 
And the green of the trees and the blue of the leas 

And the skies gleamed everywhere. 

And the dewdrops' dazzling jewels, 

In garlands and diadems, 
Lightened and twinkled and glanced and shot 

As the glints of a thousand gems: 

Emeralds of dew on the grasses; 

The rose with rubies set; 
On the lily, diamonds ; and amethysts 

Pale on the violet. 

And there were the pinks of the fuchsias, 

And the peony's crimson hue, 
The lavender of the hollyhocks, 

And the morning-glory's blue : 

The purple of the pansy bloom, 

And the passionate flush of the face 

Of the velvet-rose; and the thick perfume 
Of the locust every place. 

148 



A VISION OF SUMMER 

The air and the sun and the shadows 

Were wedded and made as one; 
And the winds ran over the meadows 

As little children run: 

And the winds poured over the meadows 

And along the willowy way 
The river ran, with its ripples shod 

With the sunshine of the day : 

the winds flowed over the meadows 

In a tide of eddies and calms, 
And the bared brow felt the touch of it 

As a sweetheart's tender palms. 

And the lark went palpitating 

Up through the glorious skies, 
His song spilled down from the blue profound 

As a song from Paradise. 

And here was the loitering current — 

Stayed by a drift of sedge 
And sodden logs — scummed thick with the gold 

Of the pollen from edge to edge. 

151 



A VISION OF SUMMER 

The catbird piped in the hazel, 

And the harsh kingfisher screamed; 

And the crane, in amber and oozy swirls, 
Dozed in the reeds and dreamed. 

And in through the tumbled driftage 

And the tangled roots below, 
The waters warbled and gurgled and lisped 

Like the lips of long ago. 

And the senses caught, through the music, 

Twinkles of dabbling feet, 
And glimpses of faces in coverts green, 

And voices faint and sweet. 

And back from the lands enchanted, 
Where my earliest mirth was born, 

The trill of a laugh was blown to me 
Like the blare of an elfin horn. 

Again I romped through the clover; 

And again I lay supine 
On grassy swards, where the skies, like eyes, 

Looked lovingly back to mine. 

152 



A VISION OF SUMMER 

And over my vision floated 

Misty illusive things — 
Trailing strands of the gossamer 

On heavenward wanderings : 

Figures that veered and wavered, 

Luring the sight, and then 
Glancing away into nothingness, 

And blinked into shape again. 

From out far depths of the forest, 

Ineffably sad and lorn, 
Like the yearning cry of a long-lost love, 

The moan of the dove was borne. 

And through lush glooms of the thicket 
The flash of the redbird's wings 

On branches of star-white blooms that shook 
And thrilled with its twitterings. 

Through mossy and viny vistas, 
Soaked ever with deepest shade, 

Dimly the dull owl stared and stared 
From his bosky ambuscade. 

155 



A VISION OF SUMMER 

And up through the rifted tree-tops 
That signaled the wayward breeze, 

I saw the hulk of the hawk becalmed 
Far out on the azure seas. 

Then sudden an awe fell on me, 

As the hush of tjie golden day 
Rounded to noon, as a May to June 

That a lover has dreamed away. 

And I heard, in the breathless silence, 
And the full, glad light of the sun, 

The tinkle and drip of a timorous shower — 
Ceasing as it begun. 

And my thoughts, like the leaves and grasses, 

In a rapture of joy and pain, 
Seemed fondled and petted and beat upon 

With a tremulous patter of rain. 





A SUMMER SUNRISE 

AFTER LEE 0. HARRIS 

THE master-hand whose pencils trace 
This wondrous landscape of the morn, 
Is but the sun, whose glowing face 
Reflects the rapture and the grace 
Of inspiration Heaven-born. 



And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, 

I see the lotus-lands of old, 
Where odorous breezes fall and rise, 
And mountains, peering in the skies, 
Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold. 

157 



A SUMMER SUNRISE 

And, spangled with the shine and shade, 

I see the rivers raveled out 
In strands of silver, slowly fade 
In threads of light along the glade 

Where truant roses hide and pout. 

The tamarind on gleaming sands 

Droops drowsily beneath the heat ; 
And bowed as though aweary, stands 
The stately palm, with lazy hands 

That fold their shadows round his feet 

And mistily, as through a veil, 

I catch the glances of a sea 
Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale 
Toward Colch's blowing, where the sail 

Of Jason's Argo beckons me. 

And gazing on and farther yet, 

I see the isles enchanted, bright 
With fretted spire and parapet, 
And gilded mosque and minaret, 
That glitter in the crimson light. 



158 



A SUMMER SUNRISE 

But as I gaze, the city's walls 
Are keenly smitten with a gleam 

Of pallid splendor, that appalls 

The fancy as the ruin falls 
In ashen embers of a dream. 

Yet over all the waking earth 

The tears of night are brushed away. 
And eyes are lit with love and mirth, 
And benisons of richest worth 
Go up to bless the new-born day. 





TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG 

YOU make me jes' a little nervouser 
Than any dog-gone bug I ever see ! 
And you know night's the time to pester me — 
When any tetch at all '11 rub the fur 
Of all my patience back'ards ! You're the myrrh 
And ruburb of my life ! A bumblebee 
Cain't hold a candle to you ; and a he 
Bald hornet, with a laminated spur 
In his hip-pocket, daresent even cheep 

When you're around! And, dern ye! you have 
made 
Me lose whole ricks, and stacks, and piles of sleep, — 

And many of a livelong night I've laid 
And never shut an eye, hearin' you keep 
Up that eternal buzzin' serenade! 

160 



TWO SONNETS TO THE JUNE-BUG 

II 

And I've got up and lit the lamp, and clum 

On cheers and trunks and wash-stands and bu- 
reaus, 

And all such dangerous articles as those, 
And biffed at you with brooms, and never come 
In two feet of you, — maybe skeered you some,— 

But what does that amount to when it throws 

A feller out o' balance, and his nose 
Gits barked ag'inst the mantel, while you hum 
Fer joy around the room, and churn your head 

Ag'inst the ceiling and draw back and butt 
The plasterin' loose, and drop — behind the bed, 

Where never human-bein' ever putt 
Harm's hand on you, or ever truthful said 

He'd choked your dern infernal wizzen shut! 




A WATER-COLOR 

LOW hidden in among the forest trees 
An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep 
In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these 
A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep 

Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat — 
A little wicker flask tossed into that. 

A sense of utter carelessness and grace 

Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene, — 
As if the June, all hoydenish of face, 

Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, 
And brink and sagging bridge and sliding 

stream 
Were just romantic parcels of her dream. 



164 




UNINTERPRETED 



SUPINELY we lie in the grove's shady greenery, 
Gazing, all dreamy-eyed, up through the 
trees, — 
And as to the sight is the heavenly scenery, 
So to the hearing the sigh of the breeze. 

165 



UNINTERPRETED 

We catch but vague rifts of the blue through the 
wavering 
Boughs of the maples ; and, like undefined, 
The whispers and lisps of the leaves, faint and 
quavering, 
Meaningless falter and fall on the mind. 

The vine, with its beauty of blossom, goes rioting 
Up by the casement, as sweet to the eye 

As the trill of the robin is restful and quieting 
Heard in a drowse with the dawn in the sky. 

And yet we yearn on to learn more of the mystery — 
We see and we hear, but forever remain 

Mute, blind and deaf to the ultimate history 
Born of a rose or a patter of rain. 




THE LAUGHTER OF THE RAIN 



The rain sounds like a laugh to me — 
A low laugh poured out limpidly. 

MY very soul smiles as I listen to 
The low, mysterious laughter of the rain, 

Poured musically over heart and brain 
Till sodden care, soaked with it through and through, 
Sinks ; and, with wings wet with it as with dew, 

My spirit flutters up, with every stain 

Rinsed from its plumage, and as white again 
As when the old laugh of the rain was new. 

Then laugh on, happy Rain! laugh louder yet!— 
Laugh out in torrent-bursts of watery mirth ; 

Unlock thy lips of purple cloud, and let 
Thy liquid merriment baptize the earth, 

And wash the sad face of the world, and set 

The universe to music dripping-wet! 

167 




A FRUIT-PIECE 

THE afternoon of summer folds 
Its warm arms round the marigolds, 

And, with its gleaming fingers, pets 
The watered pinks and violets 

That from the casement vases spill, 
Over the cottage window-sill, 

Their fragrance down the garden walks 
Where droop the dry-mouthed hollyhocks. 

How vividly the sunshine scrawls 
The grape-vine shadows on the walls! 

168 




* 



A FRUIT-PIECE 

How like a truant swings the breeze 
In high boughs of the apple-trees! 

The slender "free-stone" lifts aloof, 
Full languidly above the roof, 

A hoard of fruitage, stamped with gold 
And precious mintings manifold. 

High up, through curled green leaves, a pear 
Hangs hot with ripeness here and there. 

Beneath the sagging trellisings, 
In lush, lack-luster clusterings, 

Great torpid grapes, all fattened through 
With moon and sunshine, shade and dew, 

Until their swollen girths express 
But forms of limp deliciousness — 

Drugged to an indolence divine 
With heaven's own sacramental wine. 








A DREAM OF LONG AGO 

LYING listless in the mosses 
Underneath a tree that tosses 
Flakes of sunshine, and embosses 

Its green shadow with the snow— 
Drowsy-eyed, I think in slumber 
Born of fancies without number — 
Tangled fancies that encumber 
Me with dreams of long ago. 
172 



A DREAM OF LONG AGO 

Ripples of the river singing ; 
And the water-lilies swinging 
Bells of Parian, and ringing 

Peals of perfume faint and fine, 
While old forms and fairy faces 
Leap from out their hiding-places 
In the past, with glad embraces 

Fraught with kisses sweet as wine. 

Willows dip their slender fingers 
O'er the little fisher's stringers 
While he baits his hook and lingers 

Till the shadows gather dim ; 
And afar off comes a calling 
Like the sounds of water falling, 
With the lazy echoes drawling 

Messages of haste to him. 

Little naked feet that tinkle 
Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle 
Down the winding road, and sprinkle 
Little mists of dusty rain, 



173 









A DREAM OF LONG AGO 

While in pasture-lands the cattle 
Cease their grazing with a rattle 
Of the bells whose clappers tattle 
To their masters down the lane. 

Trees that hold their tempting treasures 
O'er the orchard's hedge embrasures, 
Furnish their forbidden pleasures 

As in Eden lands of old ; 
And the coming of the master 
Indicates a like disaster 
To the frightened heart that faster 

Beats pulsations manifold. 

Puckered lips whose pipings tingle 
In staccato notes that mingle 
Musically with the jingle- 
Haunted winds that lightly fan 
Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted 
By the sun, and picture-printed 
Like a book that sweetly hinted 
Of the Nights Arabian. 



174 



A DREAM OF LONG AGO 

Porticoes with columns plaited 

And entwined with vines and freighted 

With a bloom all radiated 

With the light of moon and star; 
Where some tender voice is winging 
In sad flights of song, and singing 
To the dancing fingers flinging 

Dripping from the sweet guitar. 

Would my dreams were never taken 
From me : that with faith unshaken 
I might sleep and never waken 

On a weary world of woe ! 
Links of love would never sever 
As I dreamed them, never, never! 
I would glide along forever 

Through the dreams of long ago. 





THE GREAT GOD PAN 

What was he doing, the great god Pan? 

— Mrs. Browning 

OPAN is the goodliest god, I wist, 
Of all of the lovable gods that be ! — 
For his two strong hands were the first to twist 
From the depths of the current, through spatter and 
mist, 
The long-hushed reeds that he pressed in glee 
To his murmurous mouth, as he chuckled and kissed 
Their souls into melody. 

176 



THE GREAT GOD PAN 

And the wanton winds are in love with Pan : 
They loll in the shade with him day by day; 

And betimes as beast, and betimes as man, 

They love him as only the wild winds can, — 
Or sleeking the coat of his limbs one way, 

Or brushing his brow with the locks they fan 
To the airs he loves to play. 

And he leans by the river, in gloom and gleam, 
Blowing his reeds as the breezes blow — 

His cheeks puffed out, and his eyes in a dream, 

And his hoof-tips, over the leaves in the stream, 
Tapping the time of the tunes that flow 

As sweet as the drowning echoes seem 
To his rollicking wraith below. 





'MONGST THE HILLS 0' SOMERSET 

'1\/F 0NGST the Hills 0, Somerset 

lfX Wisht I was a-roamm' yet! 
My feet won't get usen to 
These low lands Fm trompin' through. 
Wisht I could go back there, and 
Stroke the long grass with my hand, 
Kind o' like my sweetheart's hair 
Smoothed out underneath it there! 
Wisht I could set eyes once more 
On our shadders, on before, 
Climbin', in the airly dawn, 
Up the slopes 'at love growed on 
Natchurl as the violet 
'Mongst the Hills o' Somerset! 
180 



'MONGST THE HILLS 0' SOMERSET 

How 't 'u'd rest a man like me 
Jes' fer 'bout an hour to be 
Up there where the morning air 
Could reach out and ketch me there !- 
Snatch my breath away, and then 
Rensh and give it back again 
Fresh as dew, and smellin' of 
The old pinks I ust to love, 
And a-flavor'n' ever' breeze 
With mixt hints o' mulberries 
And May-apples, from the thick 
Bottom-lands along the crick 
Where the fish bit, dry er wet, 
'Mongst the Hills o' Somerset ! 

Like a livin' pictur' things 
All comes back: the bluebird swings 
In the maple, tongue and bill 
Trillin' glory fit to kill ! 
In the orchard, jay and bee 
Ripens the first pears fer me, 
And the "Prince's Harvest" they 
Tumble to me where I lay 
In the clover, provin' still 
"A boy's will is the wind's will-" 
181 



'MONGST THE HILLS O' SOMERSET 

Clean fergot is time, and care, 
And thick hearin', and gray hair — 
But they's nothin' I ferget 
'Mongst the Hills o' Somerset! 

Middle-aged — to be edzact, 
Very middle-aged, in fact, 
Yet a-thinkin' back to then, 
I'm the same wild boy again ! 
There's the dear old home once more, 
And there's Mother at the door- 
Dead, I know, fer thirty year', 
Yet she's singin', and I hear; 
And there's Jo, and Mary Jane, 
And Pap, comin' up the lane! 
Dusk's a-fallin'; and the dew, 
'Pears like, it's a-fallin' too — 
Dreamin' we're all livin' yet 
'Mongst the Hills o' Somerset! 




PAN 

THIS Pan is but an idle god, I guess, 
Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams 

He loiters listlessly by woody streams, 
Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; 
Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress 

Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams 

Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems 
Drugged with a joy unutterable — unless 

His low pipes whistle hints of it far out 
Across the ripples to the dragon-fly 

That, like a wind-born blossom blown about, 
Drops quiveringly down, as though to die — 

Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt 

Whether to fan his wings or fly without. 

183 




JUNE AT WOODRUFF 

OUT at Woodruff Place— afar 
From the city's glare and jar. 
With the leafy trees, instead 
Of the awnings, overhead ; 
With the shadows cool and sweet, 
For the fever of the street; 
With the silence, like a prayer, 
Breathing round us everywhere. 



Gracious anchorage, at last, 
From the billows of the vast 
Tide of life that comes and goes, 
Whence and where nobody knows — 
184 






j^B 



JUNE AT WOODRUFF 

Moving, like a skeptic's thought, 
Out of nowhere into naught. 
Touch and tame us with thy grace, 
Placid calm of Woodruff Place ! 

Weave a wreath of beechen leaves 
For the brow that throbs and grieves 
O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, 
'Neath the sunstruck window-blind ! 
Send the breath of woodland bloom 
Through the sick man's prison-room, 
Till his old farm-home shall swim 
Sweet in mind to hearten him ! 

Out at Woodruff Place the Muse 
Dips her sandal in the dews, 
Sacredly as night and dawn 
Baptize lilied grove and lawn : 
Woody path, or paven way — 
She doth haunt them night and day,— 
Sun or moonlight through the trees, 
To her eyes, are melodies. 



187 






JUNE AT WOODRUFF 

Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear 
Through night-scenes, are songs to her- 
Tinted lilts and choiring hues, 
Blent with children's glad halloos ; 
Then belated lays that fade 
Into midnight's serenade — 
Vine-like words and zithern-strings 
Twined through all her slumberings. 

Blessed be each hearthstone set 
Neighboring the violet ! 
Blessed every roof -tree prayed 
Over by the beech's shade ! 
Blessed doorway, opening where 
We may look on Nature — there 
Hand to hand and face to face — 
Storied realm, or Woodruff Place 




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